Fill My Time With Yours
by Satay Chicken Disaster
Summary: Updated Aug 19. Eames decides to act upon a sudden impulse at the airport, defying both rules and common sense. Set immediately after the movie. Contains slash.
1. Chapter 1

This was originally intended to be about 1 maybe 2 chapters long, but the story grew, and now it's looking like I'll end up at 5 instead. Should be all up within not too long, since it's mostly done already.

I do not own Inception and I do not own Eames and Arthur, but the taxi driver and receptionist are my own creations. As is the plot. It's rated M for security and it contains slash.

The title is inspired by the lyrics of a song.

Enjoy! All reviews appreciated, of course.

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Fill My Time With Yours

* * *

He knew he shouldn't do it, knew that it was a bad idea through and through. But that bag, heading toward him on the carousel, it made him feel like he didn't have a choice, like it was the only sensible thing to do. Ridiculous, he knew. In fact it was anything _but_ sensible; in fact it was highly irrational. So when the bag rolled past him he cast a quick glance down the line of people before he took a step forward and nonchalantly heaved it off. Proceeding down toward the luggage carts he felt the unfamiliar bag in his hands. Leather. Real, obviously. New from the feel of it. He dumped it on a cart, took off his coat and draped it casually over the black piece of luggage, then grabbed the handle and steered toward the opposite side of the hall, where he turned to watch the rest of the Sydney arrivals collect their belongings. A nice bag, actually, Eames thought to himself. A glorified sports bag made of leather perhaps, with a few straps and strategically placed logos, but nice nonetheless. And the cost of it astronomical, no doubt. Probably equivalent to the gross domestic product of a smaller country, he mused, wondering both why anyone would spend so much money on something so ordinary, but also how anyone even had that kind of money at disposal at any given time.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cobb heading for the exit, and as they briefly made eye contact upon passing, only the slightest nods of recognition were exchanged. As was customary after an Extraction, or in this case Inception, job, they always left the scene of crime separately and as strangers, only resuming contact at least a few days afterwards, preferably at least a week, schedules permitting. It was a matter of attracting as little attention to oneself as possible, and this simple safety procedure was part of that. A strangely pleasant shiver went down his spine as his thoughts returned to the bag in front of him. No, it definitely wasn't ugly, just so unmistakably Arthur.

The crowd slowly let up in front of the carousel as more and more people found their luggage and left, but Arthur was of course still standing there, staring with disdain at the hole in the ground, out of which now only few suitcases and bags ever emerged, tapping his foot impatiently on the tiled floor. Eames still stood, watching, pretending to be waiting for someone, which wasn't entirely untrue. He had seen all of them leave, even shared a few words with Yusuf. Going back to Mombasa, he was, wanted to know when Eames would return. He had replied with a shrug and mumbled something about the wind, adventure and California, and Yusuf had left. Ariadne would be going back to Paris, to continue her studies supposedly, but he knew she would be on their doorstep, wherever it turned out to be, as soon as Cobb made the next call. Saito would continue running his business as usual he assumed, no doubt with heightened spirits now that his main competitor was to dissolve his empire.

When the screen above him suddenly announced that all baggage from the Sydney flight had been delivered, Arthur stopped his foot tapping and gave the carousel a final, disapproving look (three apparently abandoned suitcases still doing the rounds). Eames felt an involuntary smile form on his face, but something kept him from fully appreciating this otherwise precious moment; possibly it was Arthur's frown, which hinted at some form of distress beyond mere annoyance, and Eames thought it was time to take action. He started toward his colleague, pushing the cart in front of him. Arthur rolled his eyes and turned to find the information, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw who was approaching him from across the hall.

"Wha-..." He looked genuinely flustered.

"Just wanted to make sure you got out alright," Eames chirped, "lucky I stayed, huh?"

Arthur, still in shock, sounded somewhat hesitant. "I – I can take care of myself, lost luggage is hardly the worst obstacle I've encountered." His gaze turned down at the cart. "I thought you travelled carry-on only?"

"Usually. Decided against it this time. Might as well make a trip of it now I'm here, you know. Come on, I've got a cab waiting outside." He stopped, only a few feet away from Arthur.

"This is completely inappropriate, Eames," he said slowly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"What's done is done."

After a moment's hesitation he conceded. "Okay, go wait outside, I'll get this luggage thing sorted. I'll be damned if I lose that bag, cost me a fortune."

When Arthur emerged from the terminal a few minutes later, Eames waved at him from across the plaza, maybe a bit too enthusiastically he would later conclude. Arthur seemed to think so at least, for he took sharp notice of their surroundings and sent Eames a piercing look before rushing across the pavement toward the parked car.

"After you," Eames said as he motioned for Arthur to get in the car with mock gentlemen's gestures. Arthur rolled his eyes in response, but Eames thought he saw the tiniest trace of a smile curl across his face before he ducked into the taxi.

"Where to?" the driver asked when they had both gotten seated, his heavy accent not instantly recognisable to Eames. He looked at Arthur, eyebrows raised.

"Well I was planning on heading on down to San Diego for a visit, then up to Seattle, but I guess I'll have to find a place to stay here while-"

"I've got a room all set up in East Los Angeles, you can just stay with me, darling."

Arthur glanced at the driver. "In your dreams, Eames," he mumbled, then, turning towards the front of the car, "Casa de Miranda in Downtown, please."

"Always so classy," Eames remarked, but Arthur ignored him.

They drove in silence for a while, looking at the endless sprawl that was Los Angeles whiz past them outside the windows. What a strange city, so dull and lifeless, like the blueprint of a dream. Eames inadvertently reached for his poker chip and felt the familiar weight and texture of his totem that reassured him that this was indeed the real world. Arthur noticed and cocked his head slightly, a curios expression on his face.

"Losing track of reality?"

"Better be on the safe side. This place is so artificial it just might be one of your scenarios on a bad day. Millions of people live here, yet it all seems so orderly, so constructed."

"It's no Mombasa if that's what you're getting at."

"That it ain't," Eames said. He turned his attention back to the world outside, mumbling to himself, "that it ain't."

Arthur changed the subject. "Eames," he said, "it really was inappropriate. Why did you do it?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you wait for me at the airport? You know the rules as well as I do, you know we're not supposed to do that, it could have meant trouble for all of us. You should have waited, it's how we do things."

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Arthur looked at him as he said it, but did not respond. His silence indicated for Eames to continue. "I could have waited a week, but you would be long gone by then, in Seattle, Wisconsin, for god's sake you could be in Arkansas. And Cobb won't be interested in another job for a while, he's busy being a father up in Seattle. Don't worry, he'll be back," he reassured when he saw Arthur frown, "it just won't be for a little while. Could be months before he chooses to gather the team once again, and who's to say if he'll need a forger by then."

"A few months of lying low doesn't sound like such a bad deal to me."

"It could be."

"Why?"

"Well, for one, I didn't get a chance to say goodbye properly after we got off the plane," Eames said with a grin, "and you know me, I don't do goodbyes very well."

Arthur stared at him.

"Casa de Miranda," the driver announced, pulling over, letting Arthur get out. When he reached the pavement on the other side of the car, Eames had rolled down his window.

"Stay in touch, will you?"

Arthur looked down, opening his mouth as if to say something, though no words came across his lips. He hesitated. "Goodbye, Eames," he finally said, then turned around and went into the hotel, the name swung in delicate gold letters above the entrance.

So very Arthur.


	2. Chapter 2

Fill My Time With Yours

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The late afternoon light filtered through the mesh of cobweb covering the window and lit up the sparsely decorated room. Books lay scattered across the dusty desk, and in the corner the drawer stood unused. On a mattress on the floor sat Eames. He grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, the walls and ceiling already yellow, nearly brown along the edges, from years of smoking by previous tenants. Exhaling, he leaned back against the wall. The ambient light, the stuffed, hazy air, the ramshackle furniture; It reminded him of Mombasa. Dirty, unkempt, lovely Mombasa. He closed his eyes, contemplating the comparison. Except Mombasa was noisier, always something to be heard: people arguing, a baby crying, the sound of the streets. The murmur of the city. No, this silly excuse for a city was definitely no Mombasa. He leaned forward to butt the cigarette in the makeshift ashtray on the floor and rose to his feet. On his way out he reached for the black leather bag placed on a chair in the middle of the room, but decided against it and left without.

Walking around Downtown Los Angeles he felt disconcerted by the abandoned streets, barely a human to be seen. He half expected some subconscious projections to show up and fill the scene at any moment. Even dreams felt more real than this. Whenever he saw anyone, a homeless person maybe, sleeping with a cardboard blanket, or rooting the dumpsters for food, he felt a drop of warmth and comfort spread through him, but then his gaze would return to the skyscrapers surrounding him, reaching for the black sky like monoliths of glass and steel, and he would be back in this cold world. Inhuman. He looked upwards and was hit on the forehead by what felt suspiciously like a drop of rain.

"Great," he said to himself, and a second raindrop hit his face.

Before long it was pouring down, and Eames still hadn't reached his destination. He held his jacket above his head to shield from the water falling from the sky, but this only served in exposing his upper body to the chill winds that seemed to have come from nowhere.

When he reached the glass doors with the golden letters on top his clothes were soaked, and he took a moment to compose himself before he entered the lobby. So golden, everything, from the doorhandles to the bar stools to the lamps, casting their soft light on the black marble floor. Eames smiled to himself as he went to the reception and asked for Arthur, trying to maintain a professional, unaffected posture, though he was soaked to the bone. Room 714. Silly boy, he thought as he thanked the receptionist and headed for the elevator, didn't even use a pseudonym. He pushed the golden button marked with a 7 and inspected himself in the mirror as the elevator accelerated him toward the sky, mindlessly rearranging his hair, until a _pling_ snapped him back to reality, and a voice announced that he had reached the seventh floor. They had carpet on the floors up here, he noticed. Still black, though.

The door with 714 written on it, in the same golden letters as used above the hotel entrance, was at the end of a hallway, and as soon as he reached it he started knocking. Sensing movement on the other side, he took a step back and waited for the door to be opened.

"I-..." Arthur's arm dropped to his side, his lips slightly parted. Even when alone he wore his stiff attire, and Eames was amazed to find his hair as styled as always, not a single strand out of place. He interrupted him before he could say anything further.

"Can you believe it, rain in Southern California, rain?" He stepped forward and Arthur took a step to the side, seemingly not trusting himself to speak just yet.

"You're a work of art, Eames, you know that, right?" he finally said when they were both back inside, his back against the closed door.

Eames was at the window at the far end of the room, staring out into the wet, Californian night. "Can you believe it," he repeated, "all this bloody rain."

Arthur ignored him. "Why are you here?"

"How's that for a warm welcome, Arthur, thank you. I'm here because of the rain."

"You're here because of the rain?"

"Yes. Well, I'm _also_ here because of the rain. I thought you might enjoy some company."

"I do enjoy your company, Eames." There was something in his voice that he couldn't quite pinpoint.

"Good," he grinned, and turned his eyes toward the window yet again. "Back in England it's like this all year. That's why I live in Mombasa most of the time, you know."

"Ha, you live in Mombasa for the gambling and alcohol."

He considered it. "True."

"And because you can get away with all your semi-legal activities over there." As he said it he was slowly walking toward Eames, who had turned around and now watched Arthur approach him. That slow determination in his step, that fire burning in his eyes

"You know me too well." He started walking himself.

"And because that city is as gritty and uncivilized as you are." They were only a few steps apart by now.

"Be nice!" He was grinning, took another step toward Arthur. "Surely I can't be that bad." They were face to face, their gazes locked. He could feel Arthur's breath, synchronizing with his, their bodies merely inches apart but not touching. His clothes were soaked, but the cold shiver that ran through his body had nothing to do with that. This god among men that stood before him. So delicate. So perfect. So very Arthur.

"I thought you might – enjoy some company," he whispered inbetween panting breaths.

He had to have him. Slowly he lifted his hand and touched his cheek. The moment their skin made contact an electric jolt shot from his fingertips back up his arm and permeated every single cell of his being. Filled him with Arthur. So soft. Gently he caressed his cheek and neck, ever so slowly pulling him closer. Arthur turned his head slightly so their cheeks met. He could feel his warm breath on his skin, hear the slight panting that emanated from his barely open mouth. How he wanted to kiss those luscious lips, how he wanted to ruffle that all too perfect hair, how he wanted to feel that body against his. He closed his eyes.

"I know you did it," Arthur whispered.

"Huh?" It was as much a question as it was a moan as he breathed out.

"At the airport," he said, pulling away from Eames, "I know you took my bag, you really thought I wouldn't notice?" He stepped back, turned around and went to the coffee table to pour himself a drink. "You're a work of art, Eames," he repeated.

Eames was paralyzed, nailed to the floor. He couldn't move, couldn't think of a single thing to say. "Arthur-" he tried, but words failed him. Speechless wasn't a word Eames had ever had to use to describe himself, and he felt nauseous at the thought.

"What? Look, come have a drink, and get out of those drenched clothes for god's sake, you must be freezing."

Eyes fixated on the door, Eames considered the proposal. His mind was racing, his thoughts in a million different places. Instinct was telling him, no, screaming at him, to make a run for it, to get out as fast as possible. But something else pulled him towards that couch, towards that man that sat there, legs crossed, looking at him expectantly. He couldn't let him go, not just like that.

"So what's it going to be?"

Eames took a step forward, as if testing the waters. Then he took another and made his way to the couch where he sat himself, close enough to Arthur that they were almost touching. "You're such a tease." Being close to him again he felt comforted, he felt safe.

The smirk on his face revealed how much he was enjoying the situation as he handed Eames the glass of scotch he had just poured. "You deserved it."

"I most certainly did not."

Arthur merely smiled at this and didn't pursue the subject, instead directing his attention towards the drink in his hand. Eames smiled as well and slowly moved his leg closer to Arthur's. He didn't respond to the approach, apparently lost to this world in concentration. Eames wondered what direction his thoughts had taken, but Arthur spoke before he could ask.

"You really think we won't see Cobb for months?"

So business. "Not unless you intend to go play uncle to his kids in Seattle. His main concern right now is his family."

"Of course, I just have a had time believing he'll be able to stay away for long. This is what he does, and he loves it."

"Who can blame him, it's addictive."

"But I guess he's battling the guilt of ever having to leave his kids again."

"No doubt. Commitment, it weighs you down, huh?"

Arthur observed him with a crooked smile.

"Don't worry," Eames said, "he's not ready to retire just yet, he'll be back." He placed a hand on Arthur's thigh and felt tension filling his body under the touch. Serves him right, he thought and kept his hand in place. He didn't intend to give up on Arthur that easily and squeezed his leg slightly as if to reassure himself of the fact.

"I'm not worried." He glanced down at the hand for a quarter of a second, then lifted his gaze and looked Eames in the eyes. He turned away. "What about Ariadne?"

"Ariadne?" Eames asked, incredulous. He removed his hand but stayed put, their legs still brushing against each other. "What about her?"

"You think she'll be alright?"

"Of course she will."

"You reckon she'll be back?"

Eames felt a stab of jealousy. He hadn't been blind to the playfulness between them when they had been preparing for the Fischer job. "Of course she will," he said again, "don't you remember your first time? The exhilaration, the thrill. Could you have left after that and never come back?"

Arthur didn't answer. Eames knew he hadn't ever doubted that Ariadne would be back, and that bringing her up had been nothing but a panic reflex.

"But, you know, just because we won't be working together doesn't mean we're not allowed to see each other," Eames said.

"I know, but I live in Seattle, Eames, you live in Mombasa."

"You know as well as I do that neither of us _live_ anywhere."

"You spend your _time_ in Mombasa then, but I don't see how that's any different."

"It means I'm not committed to any one place. And don't tell me you feel any special commitment toward Seattle, you spend more time abroad than you do up there."

"I happen to like my home town, Eames, but if you feel no commitment then move here, stay in California. Or move to Washington. What's holding you back?"

"This godforsaken place? I might as well move back to old England then, and that's not happening."

"If you think I'll be going to Mombasa just to see you, you must be dreaming. Besides, you owe me one. You stole my bag."

"Borrowed." The scotch sent waves of warmth through his body as he drank. "Didn't suit me anyway, not my style. And you'll be pleased to know it's being kept in a safe place until it can be returned to its rightful owner."

"You mean that room of yours in East LA? I have a hard time believing that constitutes somewhere safe."

"Don't be such a prude," he said, and then, mulling it over, "I'd like to show you sometime, actually."

"What, East Los Angeles? It's not like I haven't been there before."

"No. Yes. No, not just that, but my world. Mombasa. I want you to see Hong Kong, Kolkata, Belgrade, Buenos Aires. My cities."

"I've already been to Hong Kong," Arthur said defensively.

"Maybe you've been to Hong Kong, but you haven't _been_ to Hong Kong. You arrive, check in to a hotel that might as well be in New York or Paris," he let his gaze wander across the room suggestively, "then you get the job done and on to the next city, the next generic hotel."

"Don't mistake class for ignorance, Eames."

"I just want you to see the world as I see it. The life, the soul."

"The hobos and the prostitutes."

"Real people, driven by real emotions rather than money."

"People are people." He sighed. "Look, I'll think it over, but I have other things to take care of too, and I'm not going to just follow you around on a guided tour of the world." He drank the rest of his scotch and got up. "I'm going to take a shower. You can stay if you want."

"Thanks I believe I will," Eames said and leaned forward to pour himself another drink, "your hospitality is much appreciated."

At the bathroom door Arthur hesitated. "Eames," he said and turned around, "what are you doing?"

"I'm drinking expensive scotch in an expensive hotel, what does it look like?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed, but Eames didn't seem to notice. Or else he chose to ignore it. "No, really, what is this?" He indicated the both of them. "What are you doing here? What are _we_ doing here?"

"Well I don't know about you, but I'm-"

"Eames."

"Look." He put the glass down and leaned back in the couch. "You know why I'm here, I think that's obvious by now. It's you I want, Arthur, it's you I'm here for. I had my first chance and I blew it, but seeing as you haven't kicked me out yet it would seem that on some level you want the same. But I don't know what we're doing, you won't let me touch you, yet you sit here and talk to me about moving to Seattle with you. I don't know what it is, if you just enjoy being a tease, or if you're afraid, or if you have other issues to resolve, but, well, I'm in it for the long run, Arthur, for as long as you want me here," he added with a smile.

Arthur watched him in silence all through the speech with a stern expression on his face, and even when Eames smiled at him he didn't flinch. His eyes revealed no emotion either, and Eames waited patiently for Arthur to speak himself. When he finally said something it was only three small words, and Eames could barely hear him, as if he was merely saying them to himself. "I'm not afraid." Then he went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Fill My Time With Yours

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Eames was standing with his back against the window, and he could feel the raindrops hitting the glass on the outside. It seemed like it was never going to let up, maybe not until the streets were flooded and the outcasts of the world washed away. He could think of a few people who wouldn't mind that, and one of them was, ironically enough, right here in this hotel room with him. This impeccable hotel room. If the bottle on the table and the muffled sound of someone in the shower didn't betray him, he never would have guessed that someone was currently inhabiting it. Even the carpet had that eerie look of never having been set foot on, though he knew for sure that was not the case. Suddenly self-conscious he looked down himself, aware of his wet clothes that clung to his body. He was trembling.

Stepping into the bedroom he was greeted by an even more disturbing sight than the living room, for in here not a single sign of human habitation presented itself. Even the bed was neatly made up and untouched. Looked brand new. "God damn it, Arthur," he said to himself and opened the closet doors. Nearly empty, only about one set of spare clothes in there. Serves you right for not bringing his bag, Eames thought to himself while examining one of the shirts.

"What are you doing?"

Eames spun around, shirt still in his hands. "Checking out your closet." Arthur was wearing a silk bathrobe and Eames found himself wondering for a split second what, if anything, he was wearing underneath. "I'll get sick if I don't change into something dry."

"I see," he said with a wry smile, "wait here, there's another robe like this one in the bathroom, let me go get it for you."

"Like... that one?" Eames asked hesitantly, slightly bemused, but Arthur had already left the room and didn't hear him.

When he reappeared in the doorway Eames was in the process of removing his pants, his socks already on the floor beside him. Arthur cleared his throat to announce his presence, but Eames had already noticed him.

"Yes, yes, if you're just going to stand there can you at least help me get this shirt off?"

"Eames."

"What? I can't undo these damn buttons, my hands are freezing." He fumbled with one of them, pulling the cold, clammy fabric away from his skin.

Arthur still seemed reluctant, but put the robe on the bed and went to help him. He grabbed Eames' hands to lead them away from the impossible task. "Good god, Eames, you really are cold." Hurriedly he went about undoing the buttons.

"What did you expect, love?" Arthur didn't look at him as he was working the shirt, but it didn't matter, his warm hands in such close proximity to his body was enough. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Prayed for him to never stop. As if punched in the stomach, he lost his breath when Arthur suddenly placed both hands just above his chest. Surely he must have noticed, but he didn't say anything, just kept his warm hands firmly placed on his body, the burning palms on his skin spreading heat through him like a wildfire across the steppes of Africa. He held his hands there a little longer than necessary before he led them up behind his shoulders to get the shirt off, but it didn't matter to Eames, for all he cared he could have stood like that for hours. Chest against chest he worked to get the sleeves off of his arms behind Eames' back. Only the soft fabric of Arthur's robe separated their bodies now, rubbing against his skin like the silk of gods.

"See, it's not so bad is it?" Eames whispered. Arthur didn't respond, but gave the shirt a last yank to get it all the way off. It fell to the floor, but Arthur still held his ground, didn't move a muscle. Eames didn't feel cold anymore, his blood rushing through his veins, his heart pounding like never before, the heat radiating from Arthur's body penetrating to his very core. The moment they stood like this seemed to last a lifetime, but still felt like it was over too soon. Arthur moved. "Don't go," Eames said, "please don't go."

Arthur still had his head bowed, eyes fixated on Eames' chest. "Eames." He looked up and their eyes met. "I'm not very good at this, Eames." His voice was trembling.

"You don't have to be. Don't over think it, just do it." Eames ran a hand down his silk covered front and gently untied the simple knot that held it closed. It parted. His hand disappeared in the opening and Arthur drew his breath in sharply when the cold hand met his stomach. Eames inched forward while leading his hand to the small of Arthur's back. "Just do it."

Arthur lowered his gaze once again. "I can't. Eames I can't just do it." He pulled away and went to the bed, leaving behind only cold, empty air in the space that his body had occupied. The robe was on the bed, and he grabbed it and went back to Eames, draping it over his shoulders while he urged him to put it on properly.

"Take a chance, Arthur," he said, almost accusatory, ignoring the robe and in fact not moving at all.

"Come on, you're still freezing." He tried to lead his arm through the silken sleeve, but Eames shrugged him off.

"Don't bother. How naïve of me to think you were capable of intimacy, maybe it was a mistake to come here after all."

"Don't say that, you're not going home in this weather. You have nothing to wear, all your stuff is wet."

"I'll get wet when I go outside regardless."

"Now you're just being stupid, you're sleeping here. Take the bed and I'll sleep on the couch. And put on your damn robe."

Eames paused for a few seconds, then sighed. "What's your problem? It's obvious we're attracted to each other. Don't be afraid to acknowledge your feelings, it's nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur."

For a while no one said anything, tension filling the air, and when the silence was finally broken it was Arthur that spoke, in a low but determined voice.

"I'm not – ashamed."

"Then what? It's obvious there's _something_ holding you back. When we get close you snap shut like an oyster. You have to let go sometimes, you have to let your guard down, Arthur, it's part of being human. You don't have to be like this, embrace your feelings, don't shut them out and pretend they don't exist."

"I'm not pretending I don't have feelings."

"No, but you're afraid to act on them. You don't have to kiss me, you don't have to touch me, but at least talk to me then, tell me what's on your mind. If nothing else I deserve that. I want to stay here, I really do, but you're driving me away, Arthur. Let me help you work through whatever issues you have."

"Then work through yourself, Eames, because you're the issue here, not me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I know you, Eames. You're a complete hedonist. I'm not like you, and I'm not going to play your game, because I know how you play. In Mombasa, in South America, it doesn't matter where you are, you see yourself a target and you chase it. And you get it, Eames, you always get what you want. You chase and you catch, and it's always the same. So don't talk to me about letting go, because you never let go, you never let anyone in. You just collect your prize and move on. You think you can just act all charming, and take my bag, and get a taxi, and show up in my hotel room. Playing your cards, thinking that at some point I'll have to surrender and jump into your open arms, like I'm some sort of trophy for your cabinet. Well I'm not, Eames."

"That's what you think this is, a game? You talk like you know me, but if you think I'd treat you like that, you have no idea who I am at all. You're worth more than that, silly. I care about you."

"You're not denying it."

"What, my lifestyle? Of course not, because I can't. I enjoy the chase, but you're different, Arthur, don't you think I meant what I said earlier? I don't just want you for the night, I want you the morning after as well, and the morning after that, and the morning after that. I'm yours to keep, I hope you know that. Just because I like to have fun it doesn't mean I'm incapable of feeling, and it certainly doesn't mean I can control my feelings either."

"You're not making a very strong case for yourself," Arthur said coldly.

"Trust, Arthur! Why won't you trust me?" He had raised his voice though he didn't mean to. "Let me prove to you that you mean more to me than that."

"Go to sleep, Eames."

"God damn it, Arthur!" Eames yelled, but the door to the living room was already closed and he received no reply. The robe had long since fallen off his shoulders and he tried to kick it toward the door; Instead he got his foot tangled up in it and had to kick into the air even more to get it off. He cursed himself as he sat down on the bed. No doubt going after him now was pointless, there really was not much he could do except wait it out and try and talk to him in the morning. God damn it, Arthur, why did it have to be so difficult. This should, if anything, have been simple, should only have been a matter of taking the first step, the rest falling into place.

Deep down he knew that wasn't the truth, though, that he had brought it upon himself, that Arthur deserved so much more than his cocky advances. That he deserved the world. God damn it, Eames. He tried to push his thoughts of Arthur aside and decided to get some rest, though he didn't feel tired at all.

Crawling into bed the smell of Arthur filled the sheets and revealed that he had indeed slept in the bed the previous night, despite it having looked so untouched. It only made Eames cherish it even more, but the stabbing pain inside grew likewise. How he would have given anything to sleep on the couch with Arthur. Or on the floor beside the couch. Or on the floor while Arthur slept in this glorious nest. Noise came from the other room and Eames wondered what he was up to in there, what he was thinking, how he was feeling. He lay like that for a while, contemplating everything, thoughts full of Arthur. God damn it.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I'm a sucker for angst.

Thanks for the reviews, they're all much much appreciated!

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Fill My Time With Yours

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The sound of smashing glass pierced the air and woke him up. Eames was on his stomach, the duvet halfway across the bed, and before he could check at what ungodly hour he had been woken, he heard a loud "shit!" from the living room. Sitting up, he reached for his watch on the night table. 2.30. He nearly lay back down – how the bed was calling for him – but as his brain slowly came round as well, he remembered what had caused him to wake up in the first place. His mind filled with dread.

"Arthur," he called, "Arthur are you alright?"

A loud crash, "ow! Damn!" someone scraping them self off the floor, "ow! Eames? Are you up?" He burst into the room and nearly stumbled again in the dark.

"Get over here," Eames said and beckoned for Arthur to come sit on the bed. He turned on the bedside lamp and was shocked at the sight that greeted him. Bloodshot eyes, looking as if he hadn't slept in years, and his hair. His hair. Dishevelled would be an understatement. Neat, orderly Arthur sat there in front of him with hair covering half his face, the rest like an unruly wig of curly strands, pointing here and there. He was rocking back and forth in an uneven motion, each time looking as if he was about to fall over until he snapped back up.

"Arthur," he said again, brushing hair away from the drunk man's face. His skin was like burning coal. "Have you been drinking?" The question was redundant, but he could think of nothing else to say.

Arthur squinted. "No," he said, then yawned. "Maybe."

"You need to sleep, Arthur."

"But I'm not – tired," he said with a thick voice, "I want to talk."

"We'll talk in the morning."

Arthur moved closer to the other man on the bed. "I feel ridiculous, Eames," he said, "absolutely – ridiculous."

"You're not ridiculous," he reassured him, adding with a smile, "although your current look does leave something to be desired."

"That's what I mean, look at me-" he flailed his arms as he said it and inadvertently hit Eames in the face. Both his hands flew straight to cover his mouth and his eyes grew to twice their normal size. "I'm so sorry," he said into the palms of his hands, "so sorry." In slow motion, as if afraid to hurt him again, he reached to gently touch Eames' cheek. "Did it hurt?" Eames couldn't help but smile.

"No, don't worry about it, love."

Arthur rested his hand on Eames' shoulder and coddled his neck with his fingers. He inched forward and lifted his other hand to place on Eames' bare chest. The burning sensation left a trail on his skin when Arthur ran his hand down his side to place on the mattress, supporting himself as he leaned forward. Eames closed his eyes, clenching his fists, and took a deep breath.

"Arthur. Don't."

"But I want to," he whispered.

"No. Arthur. No." He didn't quite believe it himself, but opened his eyes as he gently but firmly pushed the man he so longed for away from him.

Arthur looked at him, a pleading look in his eyes, but didn't say anything further. He smiled a distant smile and lowered his body onto the bed, laying his head in Eames' lap. Eames stroked his head, combing back his hair with his fingers. A sudden thought that flashed into his mind made him aware of how long he had wanted to do this. This exactly, this absent-minded fiddle with Arthur's always too perfect hair. But this was not the moment he had imagined, definitely not the moment he wanted.

"By the way, I'm not," Arthur said slowly. Eames, who had thought he was asleep, snapped back to the real world. "Your love."

"Of course you're not," Eames reassured him, never stopping the tender massage of his scalp. He said nothing more, and they sat in silence for a long while until it was, once again, broken by Arthur, who seemingly never intended to get any rest.

"You and I, Eames," he started slowly, "we're like two peas – in a different pod." A frown formed on his forehead as he paused. "Except you're British. And completely obnoxious."

Eames quickly shoved a fist into his mouth to keep from laughing, determined not to make Arthur feel any more ridiculous. He decided it was best not to say anything to that, and instead continued stroking his hair.

"What's wrong with me?" Arthur asked suddenly and lifted his body slightly to look Eames in the eyes.

"Nothing's wrong with you."

"Yes there is. You and I. You're the bad guy. But I don't care, Eames, I want you. Why won't I let me have you?"

Eames considered it for a while as Arthur lay back down on the bed. "Because I'm the bad guy," he finally conceded and paused. "You're protecting yourself." Even as the words came across his lips, he was aware of how little he wanted to say them, how it stung his heart. But it was the truth, and this was Arthur, and Arthur had always made him do things so unlike himself he was continually amazed.

"I don't want to protect myself." He yawned. "I want to be with you," he said, eyes closed.

"Later, Arthur, you can be with me later," he reassured the tired man. "Stay here, I'll get you a glass of water." He got up and went out the open door, noticing the bottle on the table in the living room. Nearly empty. Shards of glass lay shattered around it and on the floor, and he was careful not to step on any with his bare feet.

When he returned he found Arthur curled up on the bed, looking peaceful. He opened his eyes when Eames entered and lifted his head to accept the glass he was offered, drinking it in one go. After he was done, he crawled toward the headboard and put the glass on the bedside table, before finally giving in to exhaustion and letting himself fall down onto the soft mattress, staying exactly where he landed. Eames found a light blanket in one of the drawers, Arthur definitely didn't need a fluffy duvet right now, and tugged him in lightly.

"Don't go," Arthur whispered.

"I won't. I'm right here with you."

"Hold me."

It was in the way he said it. That insistent undertone to the innocent pleading. With all the constraint he could muster, he stayed put, battling the turmoil that tore at his insides. His body screamed _yes_, while his mind, that had somehow taken the form of Arthur, merely observed him with an accusing, degrading look, not saying anything, yet somehow saying so much.

At last he gave up and got in the bed beside him, feeling guilty, conflict still tearing him apart.

The smell of Arthur mixed with the smell of alcohol greeted him when he nuzzled the back of Arthur's head with his nose. His hand found his way to Arthur's smooth chest, soft like the rest of him, and he held him close, barely breathing, for fear of ruining the moment. For fear that at any second, a real, sober Arthur might walk through the door, announcing that he had failed. Still, each second that passed surpassed the last as the best in Eames' life, and in the minutes he lay there no other thoughts crossed his mind. There was only the present. There was only Arthur. Arthur. Arthur.

"Arthur?"

No reply.

"Arthur," he tried again, but he had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep, oblivious to the world. Eames lay for another moment, enjoying the warm body against his, before he quietly got up, careful not to make as much as a single noise, though Arthur was so fast asleep a freight train could have burst through the wall without waking him up. He observed him for a moment, lying there slightly curled up on the bed, before he grabbed the glass on the table and went to fill it up. No doubt he would be thirsty when he woke up. Then he went about cleaning up the broken glass in the living room, before finally falling asleep on the couch himself, still thinking about the man in the next room.

The next time he woke it was from the sunlight hitting his face. He blinked, turned on the other side. But now that he was awake there was no point in trying to get any more rest, so he sat up slowly. Light bathed the room and it looked almost pleasant as he looked around, yawning. Pleasant in that over-pleasant way, the huge window at the end of the room letting almost too much light in. For a second he considered drawing the curtains, but instead he went to the pane and looked out. Down onto the street that was now crowded with people in suits, doing their business, on their way to the day job. So there is life in this city after all. He smiled to himself as he went to the bedroom to get his clothes. They were still damp, and getting dressed he wondered why exactly he did not own an umbrella. After all, you never know when you might find yourself in a Southern California tropical downpour next.

Part of him somehow hoped it would be soon.

Arthur was still asleep. Of course, he would probably sleep until noon. The blanket he had tugged him in was on the floor, the sleeping man on his back on the bed, one arm lying across his abdomen, the rest of his limbs spread in all directions. That slim body, toned to perfection. Eames watched him for a bit, following the rhythmic movements of his torso as he breathed calmly. So peaceful in his sleep. He would never tire of that sight, but, determined not to cross any more boundaries, he merely cast one last, brief glance at the resting man before leaving the hotel room.

As he was about to close the door he hesitated for a moment, but pulled, a soft _click_ announcing its locking behind him.

The next few days passed in a haze of cigarette smoke. The calm he had felt when leaving the hotel room soon subsided, replaced instead by restlessness. The city bored him and he was merely passing time, but yet he had not once seriously considered leaving; He was where he was supposed to be right now, he was convinced of that. But doubt still gnawed at him. Arthur hadn't contacted him, and when Eames had tried the hotel, he either hadn't let him in or hadn't been home, because the receptionist later kindly informed him that Arthur had not checked out. But no sign of him. He wondered what it all meant, watching the smoke rise and dissolve into the air in unpredictable twists and swirls.

A loud knock on the door startled Eames and he flew up, back against the wall, ready to attack the intruder upon entry, his reflexes perfected from years of making powerful enemies through his line of work. No one was supposed to know this place. Who were they, and more importantly, how had they found him. He stood in silence, heart pounding in his chest, scanning the room for something to use as a weapon, or a way to make a quick exit. The window was too small, he couldn't possibly squeeze through fast enough. No way out.

Another knock, even louder this time. Then again, if someone were after him, would they knock?

"Eames, I know you're in there," a familiar voice called out.

"Arthur," he gasped, letting out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. As he reached down to unlock the door, he tried to force his heart into beating less rapidly, but his efforts were in vain. A pearl of sweat had sprung into being on his forehead. "Give me a damn heart attack, will you?" he exclaimed as soon as he opened the door. "How the hell did you find me here?"

Arthur seemed amused at the situation. "Calm down," he said, "it's what I do. Research. Wouldn't be doing my job very well if I couldn't even locate one of my own colleagues, would I?"

"Guess not," Eames replied, still not to terms with the sudden intrusion. "But if _you_ can find me here-"

"Don't worry, you're safe. We're on home soil," he said, which drew a sharp look from Eames. "You know what I mean. It's the United States, no one's coming for you here."

Eames wasn't convinced and made a mental note to be more careful next time. A slight scowl on his face, he looked over the room, as if it had betrayed him and singlehandedly revealed his whereabouts to the world. He frowned.

Arthur, who had followed his gaze around the room, guessed his train of thoughts. "You're safe, Eames, trust me." This time he was more persistent, almost annoyed. "It's not like you to be so paranoid."

"It's not like me to have people showing up at my safe house unannounced."

"Consider it payback for showing up in my hotel room unannounced the other night," he countered.

Memories of the night flooded his mind. He looked at Arthur, but his face revealed no emotion. "I dropped you off at that hotel. You checked in using your own name for god's sake, it's not like you _wouldn't_ expect me to show up."

"You stole my bag and expected me not to come get it? Well?" he asked, taking a suggestive step forward.

"Borrowed," he said, dropping the subject and letting Arthur in, "it's right there on the chair, unharmed, untouched."

Arthur stopped right in front of him and leaned forward. "Thank you," he whispered, his tender voice making the hair on the back of Eames' neck rise. "The other night. Thank you," he said again, and then proceeded toward to the center of the room. So he did remember. "And _thank you_," he added in mock appreciation as he heaved the bag off the chair, weighing it like one might a totem after waking up from a strange dream. Eames automatically reached for his pocket and felt the familiar poker chip through the fabric of his pants. Meanwhile Arthur was examining the room with his scornful look, bag still in his arms. His gaze, for a moment fastened on the table spread with books, soon ran over the rest of the worn furniture and up towards the browned ceiling before settling on the lonely mattress and the single stream of sunlight that hit the wall above it.

"You know, this is disgusting," he finally said. Eames had been unconsciously awaiting his verdict, he realized. "Even for you."

If anything, this was about what he had expected. "Thank you, Arthur, I'll keep your judgmental voice in the back of my head next time."

"Look at it." He gestured at the cobweb in the window sill.

"I've seen worse."

"I'm sure you have, and I'm sure you enjoyed that real good."

"What can I say, I like it rough once in a while. You should try it sometime."

"You might not have style, Eames, but I know you enjoy certain luxuries. And this place is a complete dump."

"For the time I intend to stay this will do just fine."

"How long do you intend to stay?"

"I don't know."

Arthur raised his eyebrows at the contradiction.

"How long do you want me to stay?"

"Eames." He ignored the last question. "I think you should come and stay with me, there's no reason for you to stay here," he said, a barely noticeable hesitation between the last two words.

"Stay with you?"

"Yes, at the hotel. There's more than enough space, or we can get a bigger room if you want, or you can get your own room."

Eames looked at Arthur, squinting his eyes. "Is this you taking pity on me?"

"No-"

"Are you concerned for my health then?"

"No, Eames..."

"So you're trying to induce me with some of your supposed style then, I see."

"Eames." Arthur rolled his eyes as if to say _why do I even bother._ "I want you to stay there because I want you there, there's nothing else to it," he said earnestly with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"No ulterior motives?"

A sigh. "No ulterior motives, Eames."

Eames, however, was grinning. "You disappoint me, Arthur." Then, leaning closer, "but, you know, there's nowhere else I'd rather be." He leaned back up and smiled briefly before his face took on a more serious expression. "But – are you sure? The other night..."

He didn't need to say anything more, Arthur knew what he was talking about, and his face turned a pale, rosy color in response. "Yes, I'm sure," he blurted out, cheeks turning a shade darker, and then muttered something under his breath that Eames could not quite decipher, though he could have sworn he heard the words _Eames_ and _damn it_.

Arthur quickly regained control of his demeanor, the expression on his face soon returning to that quintessentially Arthur glare that just beamed disdain at the world. If Eames hadn't seen it, he wouldn't believe that this was a man capable of blushing, much less that merely seconds ago his face had been the color of a poppy. Eames' smile was visibly constrained.

Arthur's mouth also curved into a carefully measured smile, but his next move was what blew Eames away. He caught him completely off-guard as he placed his hand around his waist, dropping the bag to the floor in the same motion, then stepped forward and placed his lips firmly on Eames'. Eames didn't move, his knees turned to gelatin, his insides feeling as if they were about to burst. Arthur didn't move, as if he himself were only testing the waters, unsure of what to do next. But those soft lips, pressing against his, the hand on his back. His entire body was tingling from the sensation.

Arthur pulled away. How long had that lasted, a second? Two? No doubt the kiss had ignited every single brain cell he possessed, extending the feel of the moment into eternity. An eternity over too soon. He stood for another second, lost to the world, before he blinked and found himself in the old, dusty room in Los Angeles. Arthur lifted his bag from the floor.

"I'll see you later?"

"Of course," he said, still flustered from the sudden kiss.

"Guess it won't take you long to pack your belongings." He cast a final look at the room.

"Always the tone, Arthur."

"And thanks," he added as he headed out the door, "for keeping my bag safe."

"Oh yeah, sorry for taking it," he mumbled, but Arthur was already halfway down the hall. "Hey! Can I buy you lunch, to make up for it?"

He stopped, but didn't turn to face him. "Don't press your luck, Eames," he said, turning his head, "that's going to cost you at least a dinner."


	5. Chapter 5

Final chapter! I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, cause it's been a pleasure. Except today was a little frantic, I've been hammering at it all day to get it out tonight, otherwise I would have to wait until at least Monday, and that just wouldn't cut it. But here it is.

Rated M for mature content (it's been rated M since the beginning, just a little heads up).

Enjoy!

* * *

Fill My Time With Yours

* * *

"What took you so long?" The second time Arthur found Eames standing outside his hotel room door, his reaction was considerably more relaxed than last time.

"Packing, love," Eames said with a grin, "I hope I haven't kept you waiting." He dropped his worn backpack containing his few possessions just inside the door, pretending it was heavily loaded. It was a lie, of course Arthur had been right when he said packing wouldn't take long. Not two minutes had passed from starting until he was ready to leave the room, ready to trail after Arthur toward his luxurious Downtown hotel room. But he hadn't done that, no matter how much he might have liked to, and had instead taken his time to make sure the room looked presentable: removing the cobweb on the window, wiping the dust off the table and drawer, sweeping the floor. He had even taken the mattress and blankets outside for a beating, and had felt weird when he returned to the room that then had seemed almost clean. Almost.

"Ready?" He asked.

"Ready?

"Yes?"

"For what?"

"For dinner, Arthur."

"For dinner?"

"Yes, ready for dinner. Are you? I owe you one, remember."

"Oh," Arthur exclaimed when it dawned on him what he meant, "I didn't think – Right now?" He obviously hadn't expected Eames to ever actually take him out to the dinner he owed him, much less that very same night.

Eames knew this and delighted himself in Arthur's surprise. He hadn't planned to take him out so soon, but the temptation had been too much: Dinner with Arthur. His treat, his rules. Arthur would have no say in the course of this evening.

"As soon as you're ready."

"Um, sure." He went to get something in a drawer and didn't even bother to check himself in the mirror on the way out. Damn him, always impeccably good looking, always ready to go out at a whim. Maybe that's why he never dresses casual, Eames thought, after all, you never know when someone might be at your doorstep, picking you up for dinner.

Closing the door behind them and walking down the hall towards the elevator, Eames held out his arm, wanting Arthur to grab it with his. Arthur sent him a look in reply that said more than words ever could, somehow managing everything in between _you've got to be kidding_, _in your dreams,_ _you're absolutely out of your mind_ and _no, really, you've got to be kidding_ in a single expression. Highly impressive. Eames took note of the nearly invisible upwards curve of his mouth, his raised eyebrows, the look in his eyes, the way his head was just slightly tilted forward in disbelief, but not nearly enough to look completely perplexed, and then he trudged onward unabashed, Arthur still at his side.

"Lovely décor, huh," Eames remarked as they walked through the lobby, Arthur's shoes making a clacking sound against the marble floor with every step.

Arthur looked around, nodding as if he understood. "I know you think it's horrible, Eames, but I like it. Part of me almost wishes I had designed it, but mostly I'm glad I didn't, because it means it actually exists."

"You make me sound so harsh, love, I don't find it horrible, just… less than tasteful."

Arthur smiled despite himself. "Lately I've found myself wondering if you're worth the trouble, Eames."

"Lately?"

"And increasingly often too."

"Since when?"

"Since you moved in."

"I moved in not five minutes ago."

"Exactly."

Arthur held the glass door open and let Eames out. "I'm worth it," he said in a low, seductive voice when he passed.

Once on the street, Eames confidently took the lead, Arthur following with a slight frown.

"Where are we even going, Eames?" he asked.

"I couldn't tell you, that would spoil the surprise."

"It doesn't have to be a surprise."

"Oh it does. My date, my rules."

Arthur stopped. "This isn't a date, Eames," he said, scornfully emphasizing the word _date_.

"It most certainly is, what else would it be? You asked me out yourself. Although indirectly," he admitted, mostly to himself, and signaled for Arthur to follow him.

"It's two grown men going to have dinner in a restaurant," he said, catching up to Eames, "purely platonic. No stupid romance, no teenage angst."

"Who said anything about a restaurant?"

Arthur stopped again.

"Come _on_," Eames said, grabbing him by the wrist and gently pulling him along, "the bus stop is right over here."

For the third time in only a minute, Arthur stopped in disbelief. "The _bus_ stop? Eames, you've got to be kidding me."

"_Come on_," he urged him on, ignoring his condescending tone of voice.

"Why are we taking the bus?"

"My date, my rules," he said with a grin, "consider it an adventure."

"Spending time with you is an adventure in itself."

"Aw, thanks, love."

"It wasn't a compliment," he said coldly, following Eames around a corner before stopping.

"We're here," Eames announced happily.

"I know. I know what a bus stop looks like, Eames."

"My, my, I didn't know you were such a proficient public transportation user, Arthur. I'm impressed."

Arthur ignored him. "Next time, I decide the place and mode of transport."

"Is that your way of asking me out on a second date?"

"Yes. _My_ date, _my_ rules," he said without looking at him.

"I'm looking forward to it." Eames couldn't hide his glee at Arthur's dissatisfaction.

Despite it being nearly empty, Arthur planted himself firmly in the aisle once on the bus, only reluctantly grabbing the handle above to prevent him from falling over. Eames, having just bought the tickets, nudged Arthur in the side when he reached him, as if to say _it's not so bad_, which only drew a barely audible grunt out of Arthur in response. He then sat down in a seat next to the standing man, feeling pleased with himself, as the bus sat in motion.

A bumpy ride and three increasingly impatient _are we there yet_s later, they finally stepped out onto a busy street. Eames theatrically taking a long, deep breath once outside, Arthur scrutinizing the surrounding area, glancing up and down the street. There were people on all sidewalks, and the street was lit up as much by lamp posts as by the multi-colored, sometimes flashing signs on the different establishments.

"Koreatown," he said with a sigh, "do you even know where we're going?"

"I'm impressed," he said, smiling at Arthur, and lead the way down the street, "and of course I do."

They walked side by side, and Eames marveled at the neighborhood, enthusiastically telling Arthur all about how he felt. How all the numerous Asian signs, though completely indecipherable to his European eye, just felt _right_. How all the people in the streets, drunk and sober, rich and poor, gave the place a feeling of being real ("but good god, Arthur, look at that, their style is even worse than yours"), but how it somehow still lacked that certain authenticity of a proper city.

Arthur smiled at his devotion. "You're judging it as if it's a dream. A city is a city," he said.

"Yes, yes, I know, but some cities are so alive and real, while others…" he paused. "Just seem inhibited."

He stopped and looked around, sure that their destination was right around here somewhere, though he couldn't spot it. Across the street a large group of people had gathered in front of something, and he wondered if that was it as he mindlessly stepped out onto the street.

"Eames," Arthur stopped him before he reached the traffic, "are we having take-out?"

"Huh?" He spun around. Arthur was on the sidewalk, standing with his arms crossed. "Yeah, how did you know?" He asked cheerfully.

"Experience has taught me not to expect more from you," he said, raising his eyebrows and nodding backwards slightly.

Eames followed his nod and found the Korean take-out just behind Arthur, an in-suspicious hole in the wall with a blue and yellow sign on top. He had assumed the writing meant something like _Delicious Korean Food Sold Here_, but he had no way to be sure. "Excellent," he exclaimed, and dragged Arthur to the menu on the wall, full of faded pictures and Korean letters.

"This isn't really what I had in mind when I said dinner, Eames," he said, eyeing over the selection with a critical gaze.

"I'm sure this isn't what you had in mind when you imagined the perfect date, either, but look at us now."

"This isn't the perfect date."

"Well." He lowered his voice. "Good thing the date isn't over yet then. Now pick something."

When they had both gotten their food, they continued down the street, looking for a place to eat it. "Now let's just hope it doesn't start raining," Eames said

"It only rains 35 days a year in LA."

"35?"

"On average, yes," he said matter-of-factly.

Eames stopped and observed Arthur, smiling. "So the chance of rain on any given day is…" He tried to do the math in his head.

"Seasonally dependant, yes. Right now I'd say it's less than 4%. It rains less in Los Angeles than it does in Mombasa, you know."

"Impossible," Eames said and looked up, then returned his eyes to Arthur. "So we arrived on the only rainy day in forever, not that I'm complaining." He sat down on the curb behind a car.

"You sure were that nigh- Eames, what are you doing?"

"If it's not going to rain, we might as well eat here, come on." He patted the curb beside him as if it were a plush chair, wanting Arthur to sit down next to him. When he showed no intentions of doing so, he looked up and started a "_my_ date…" which awarded him a killing glare from Arthur.

"Your rules," he said grimly and lowered himself, looking severely uncomfortable when his pants touched the ground. "How come I'm not surprised that eating _on the ground_ for the first time somehow happens to involve you?"

"How come I'm not surprised that you haven't ever done it before? You're such a prude, Arthur, let go sometimes, let your hair down."

"In your dreams, Eames," he said sternly and started to eat.

"We could go out for a drink afterward."

"_In your dreams, Eames_."

"But you're such a cute drunk."

If looks could kill, Eames would have been torn to pieces right about now, his remains violently run over, pushed through a paper shredder and then burned. Then maybe even dropped in the ocean to be eaten by sharks. That's what the glare read like to Eames at least, Arthur's eyes ablaze and his mouth a thin, white line, and he found himself momentarily happy that looks were physically harmless.

"What I mean-"

"_Eames_. Don't force me to make you sleep on the couch."

He moved closer. "Does that mean I'm _not_ sleeping on the couch?"

"You might be." He returned to his food. "You very well might be," he mumbled.

Though the traffic never seemed to get any less, the pedestrian crowd slowly let up, leaving only those going out for the night, or those having late night take-away, or even those drunkenly stumbling around, still roaming the streets. And Arthur seemed pleased, Eames thought. That is, Arthur didn't glare with malice at every intoxicated person yodeling down the street, and didn't shuffle in obvious discomfort whenever his attention was brought to the fact that he was sitting on the curb of a busy street. He merely registered it with the same condescending attitude he registered everything else in life.

"Maybe we should get back," Arthur suggested after they had discussed the merits of dressing like a prostitute when going out, their case in point on the subject having just disappeared into a bar across the street.

"We should," Eames said, getting up, then holding out a hand for Arthur to grab.

When he got up, Eames didn't let go of his hand, but stepped back on the sidewalk and started walking. Arthur twisted his hand out of Eames' grip and stood still, waiting for Eames to come back to him before he spoke.

"Holding hands?"

"My date?" Eames tried, but Arthur was persistent.

"There's a limit, Eames. We're out in public," he said and started walking toward the bus stop, hands in his pockets.

"That's alright, I'll just hold your hand all night then," he said, adding "all night - in your hotel room - where we will be sleeping - together," afterward, absolutely louder than necessary.

Arthur just gave him one of those disapproving looks he was becoming so accustomed to, the one that seemed to have an _Eames_ label on it. The look that was part pure annoyance, part annoyed amusement. Though Eames wasn't sure how big the amusement part really was, of if it was even there at all; there was no way to be sure with Arthur.

"He wasn't flirting, Eames," Arthur said as he let them both into their hotel room in the Casa de Miranda, "he was staring at you because you were inappropriately loud."

"It was in the _way_ he was staring. I'm telling you, Americans go crazy for my accent. Well that and my irresistible charm, of course." They had been discussing it since getting off the bus, and Arthur was for some reason adamant that the guy that had rudely stared at Eames most of the way hadn't been flirting.

"Americans have more taste than that," Arthur said, picking up the coat Eames had just thrown on the floor. He put it in the closet alongside his own and went back to the couch where Eames had flung himself.

"No need to get jealous, love," he said with a grin, propping himself up on one elbow, "I came home with you in the end, didn't I?"

"It's not like you had a choice, Eames." He pushed Eames' legs to the side and sat down on the couch. "I would have dragged you by your ankles, all the way from Koreatown if necessary, if you had as much as shown an inkling of interest in leaving."

"_Feisty_," Eames said, followed by a suggestive purr. "Being possessive doesn't suit you, Arthur."

"I'm not possessive."

Eames' gaze turned blank for a second, then he focused on Arthur once again. "Who am I kidding, I love it when you're possessive," he then said, as if just voicing his thoughts to himself.

"I'm _not_ possessive."

He paused. "So I'm free to do what I want?"

"Completely free."

"With whom I want?"

"Of course not."

"So you _are_ possessive."

"Am not."

"Well then," he pretended he was going to get up, "I think I might go find that young boy from the bus then."

"Shut up, Eames."

"He looked willing."

"Shut up."

Eames got in his knees and crawled next to Arthur. "Make me," he whispered slowly, his lips as close as they could possibly be to his ear without touching. He could feel the shiver running through Arthur's body, but he wasn't moving. "_Make me – shut up – Arthur_," he whispered again, slowly turning Arthur's head with a finger on his jaw.

Their lips were only a few centimeters from touching and their breaths were as one. They looked each other in the eyes, Arthur's deep, brown eyes shining with determination, only the tiniest flicker of his pupils revealing the uncertainty he battled. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Eames'.

"Eames," he said weakly, then opened his eyes, placing his hands on Eames' shoulders. With the entire weight of his body, he pushed him back in the couch, landing on top of him with his hands on each side of his head. "Just. Shut up," he said, lowering his body.

Then he kissed him.

Eames felt the body on top of him relax as their lips met, but he soon tensed up and lustfully drove his tongue into Eames' mouth, holding his head steady with both hands as their lips worked across each other. He was pushing his body so hard against Eames it felt as if they would merge at any moment, dissolve into one.

"_Eames_," Arthur moaned without ever removing his lips from Eames' mouth.

Eames was kissing him back with fervor, his desire to take in all of Arthur at once currently manifesting itself in his eager exploration of the inside of his mouth with his tongue. While his legs tangled themselves up in Arthur's, his hands reached his hair, gently tousling it before moving on, further down his back.

When his hands reached his ass, he gave it a squeeze, pulling him closer to himself. Arthur let out a small yelp, but continued kissing Eames up and down his neck, setting his skin on fire with each touch of his lips. Eames reached for the shirt and pulled it out of his pants, and when he placed his cold hands on Arthur's back, he stopped his kissing, panting heavily. It only grew louder when Eames ran his hands further up his back, feeling his spine beneath his sensitive fingertips and his warm skin against his palms.

The shirt was about to give in to the pressure, and he stopped trying to stretch it further, instead pushing Arthur up into a sitting position, himself following in perfect synchronicity. He resumed his kissing as his hands worked urgently to undo the buttons, only stopping involuntarily to let out a moan of surprise when he felt Arthur's hands under his own shirt.

"Damn – your – delicate shirts – Arthur," he hissed in between kisses when it was finally open, and he pulled it off, revealing the smooth, toned chest Arthur possessed, his skin pale in comparison to Eames' tanned body. He left a trail of kisses down Arthur's neck as he worked himself downwards.

"Eames – the bedroom," Arthur whispered.

"Doesn't matter. The couch is fine," he replied, trying to push Arthur on his back so he could kiss his perfect stomach.

"No – Eames, _not_ the couch – the bedroom." His breathing was heavy, but his tone left no room for compromise.

Eames stopped his kissing and raised his head so it was level with Arthur's. "Possessive _and_ commandeering, who would have thought you had it in you?"

"Shut up, Eames," he said, a smile spreading across his face before he kissed him a final time. Then he got up and went to the bedroom, closely followed by Eames, who would have held him close the entire way if his hands hadn't been busy undoing his own shirt before reaching the bed.

"Oh, Arthur," he said, throwing his shirt off to the side and instead using his now free hand to pull Arthur closer, running his nose up and down his neck. "You have no idea," he whispered, "no idea – how long I've wanted-"

"Eames," he interrupted him, "not. Not – now, now…" He didn't finish the sentence before laying himself backwards onto the bed, dragging Eames with him.

"As you wish," Eames said, now on top, as he resumed kissing him, trying to undo Arthur's belt with one hand. "God damn it, Arthur, your clothes are like…"

Arthur reached down and opened his belt in one, swift motion before Eames finished, and flashed a brief smile as he undid the button and Eames sat halfway up to pull them off. Then Eames undid his own belt before violently pulling off his trousers, laying back down on Arthur before they were all the way off, instead counting on his frantic kicking to do the job as his tongue explored Arthur's upper body. His skin tasted salty.

Arthur was panting heavily, and Eames crawled back up, kissed him passionately and drew back slightly to look him in the eyes. Those beautiful, brown eyes. Then he rolled over, pulling Arthur with him, but the smooth maneuver it should have been failed when they didn't have enough momentum, and Arthur fell to his side. They both laughed as Arthur got up and positioned himself between Eames' legs, who spread them wider in response. He leaned down to place a kiss on his lips.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Eames hissed impatiently, and Arthur sat up and spat in his hand, using it to lube himself up.

Eames relaxed as he could feel him pressing gently, but the pain when he pushed all the way in made him draw a sharp breath through clenched teeth. "Don't – stop," he articulated, though it took him great effort.

"Are you okay?" His voice, otherwise loaded with lust, was full of concern, and he looked down at Eames with a worried frown.

"Yes, yes! Don't stop, Arthur," he hissed again, pushing himself toward Arthur, who started moving in response. "_Yes_," he moaned loudly, unable to keep quiet any longer, when Arthur pushed in and hit the spot, making Eames' entire body quiver with the sensation. "_Yes_." Arthur thrust back and forth, and he pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around his neck, pulling him into a wet kiss. Their bodies were covered in sweat and Eames was breathing hard and fast now.

He held his hand on the headboard, keeping his body in place when Arthur pushed in in powerful, regular motions, filling him up. Under his skin a thousand fires were burning, his whole body sensitive to the slightest touch, as if Arthur were penetrating every single cell in him.

What sent him over the edge was when Arthur leaned forward and kissed his neck, the way their bodies rubbed against each other, hearing his panting breath so close to his ears.

"Arthur – Arthur – I'm," he said between thrusts, but didn't finish before his body tensed and he let out three long, quivering moans as every muscle in his body was sent into convulsions.

The tensing seemed to ignite Arthur as well, who thrust in hard one final time, letting out a long "_Eames_," as Eames felt his body spasm and he came.

They looked at each other for a second, then Arthur fell down onto Eames and stayed there, both of them utterly spent and exhausted.

"Hold me," Arthur said, not lifting his head from where he had tucked it under Eames' chin, and he obliged, wrapping his arms around the man, running his fingers up and down his back.

"Eames," he added after lying like that for a while, both doing nothing but enjoying the closeness of their bodies. "I don't care where you go. I'm coming with you."

Eames didn't say anything, but held him close for a long moment and lifted his head slightly to kiss the top of his head.

"But right now," Arthur said, "right now – I think we should just stay here."

He had to concede.


End file.
